


you are a memory

by izabellwit



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Dreams vs. Reality, Dysfunctional Family, Families of Choice, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hallucinations, Loss of Identity, Memory Loss, Parent-Child Relationship, Speculation, in which the Earl remembers a boy named Red
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-14 15:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18950563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izabellwit/pseuds/izabellwit
Summary: “Let’s go home, Earl. You’ll feel better after a little nap.” In the wake of that disastrous meeting with Neah, the Earl dreams of a life he never led.Or: What if Mana remembered his son?





	you are a memory

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a short tumblr post about this idea [here](https://izadreamer.tumblr.com/post/151176517242/you-know-how-allen-dreams-of-mana-i-wonder-if-the) about like… two years ago?? And I always planned on writing the fic version, but, well. I finally finished it? Mainly in honor of Allen’s past _finally_ getting revealed. Allen already gets lots of visions and memories of Mana, so it’s only fair for our dear Earl to go through some of his own, y’know? 
> 
> The title comes from [here,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LGz98WdA2vA), which is sad and pretty and works very well for Mana and Allen. It’s got a key sad/nostalgic feel to it. I recommend listening on repeat while reading this fic for the full dream-like experience!

Sometimes the Earl dreams.

.

 

Go to sleep, Earl dear, you’re just tired. The Fourteenth was really mean to you, wasn’t he? I’m sorry. Get some rest, all right? Things will be better once you wake up.

Go to sleep, Earl. Please, just sleep. We’re back in the Ark, Earl. We’re home. You’ll feel better after a little nap, okay?

Good night, Earl. Good night.

.

 

The London air is crisp and cold and burns in his lungs with every breath. The sky is clouded and gray with oncoming rain, and the gloom seems to seep into the city, sinking into the dirty streets and cobbled stone buildings, settling into the hearts of the people that roam through the sludge and ice. Specks of snow float down with dainty grace, resting light on his gloves and his hat and his shoulders, a white blanket that lasts only a second before the heat of his breath melts it away. 

The man walks through the snow, black cane tucked under one arm, humming a melody under his breath. Fresh snowfall crunches under his threadbare boots. Cold wind blows through every layer and leaves him aching and numb.

The shops that line the street are cluttered close, pressed against each other like sheep in a herd. The old stone sags, held up by the next lopsided building, a street of leaning towers with all their treasures encased in frosted glass. Away from the crowd, a young boy stands before one of these shops, peering inside. His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. Even from afar, the man can see the boy’s curled lips, his pale scowl.

The man walks up to the boy, ignoring the crowd. His lips pull into an easy smile. He speaks to the boy without knowing why.

“What are you doing?”

The boy is rags, tatters, the grime of the street personified. His hair is a reddish-brown and falls in matted clumps around his dirty face, his clothes too big and starched so thoroughly that any and all color has been bled away. His skinny arms are clothed from shoulder to fingertip, hands shoved into gaping pockets. He looks up at the man, and his eyes are as gray as the London sky above them.

“Nothin’ at all,” says the boy, with a sneer. “It’s not like you told me to stand here or anything. No, that’d be stupid.”

The man thinks he should be angry at this, but all he does is smile. His heart feels light, full of clouds. “I made you wait,” he says, softly. “I’m sorry.”

The boy sniffs, but his shoulders relax. “Whatever, you stupid clown. Not like I cared.”

The man smiles. He does not know the boy. He does not recognize him. And yet he feels as if he should.

“I know,” he tells the boy, filled to the brim with an unfamiliar fondness. The boy mutters under his breath and looks away, but his cheeks are burning red. He shuffles his feet in the snow.

He doesn’t know the boy, but the Earl laughs anyway.

 

.

 

…not anything wrong, it’s just—this hasn't happened in a long time. Yes, but Tyki, it doesn't make any—

Oh, Earl! You’re awake! That’s wonderful.

Ahh, Tyki? It’s nothing. He’s just worried, is all. You fell asleep so fast! For a moment, it was almost as if we couldn’t wake you… well, no matter. Are you feeling better? You must be; you were smiling.

...How was your sleep, anyway?

Know? Well of course I know. I may not be Road, but my Demon Eye can see _that_ much. Still, it's always best to ask these things.

...Dreams, hmm?

How interesting.

 

.

 

“Wake up, silly clown!”

The man opens his eyes. The London street from the last dream is gone, vanished away into the gloom. Now he sits on a rickety old cart, lurching down a dirt road, his shoulder pressed against splintering wood and the boy’s muddy face peering down from above him.

The man blinks, smiles. “Ah,” he says. “Did you get taller?”

The boy’s small nose wrinkles at him, and the man bites back a very childish snicker. “Stupid clown, you’re sitting down,” says the boy, almost primly.

“Ah,” says the man. “So I am.”

The boy rolls his eyes, straightening up and turning away. His right hand rises to rub at his shoulder; his left stays stubbornly in his pocket. The man’s long black coat is draped over his skinny shoulders, trailing at his feet like a cloak. “You're so weird,” he scoffs, but it’s almost fond.

“It is,” the man says sagely, gamely shifting over when the boy makes to sit beside him, “what makes me such a good clown.” The cold bites through the thin layers of his vest, and the man smiles past the cold. He does not ask for his coat back.

The boy sighs, settling beside the man, muddy boots two sizes too big kicking out over the lip of the cart. His gray London-sky eyes are downcast and solemn. His shoulders are slumped, his fire dimmed. “Whatever.”

The man watches the boy carefully. He does not ask how he knows the boy, does not wonder who he is. The boy is a stranger but he does not feel like one, and the Earl has had dreams like this before, though never as vivid as this.

“Don’t worry,” he tells the boy, and keeps any questions he has to himself. “You'll be a good clown too! Very cute!”

He expects the boy to sneer, to deny this, to claim he’s gonna be _a cool clown, damn it, stop it with this cute nonsense—_

But all the boy does is huff and turn away, a tiny smile curling at his lips. 

“Ugh,” he says. “Like hell.”

The man does not reply, but when the boy leans back against him—tentatively, fearfully, as if expecting the man to pull away—he leans right back, shoulder to shoulder, and smiles into the collar of his shirt.

Together they watch the snow fall, side by side on the wagon, the city behind them lost to the distant gloom. 

 

.

 

Well, Earl? Any better?

Oh, I see. Dreams again…

Hm? Oh! No, no, it’s okay; I’m not upset or anything! Geeze, you’re such a worrywart!

—Ah. …You’re smiling awful wide there.

Was it something I said?

 

.

 

The inn is a small, cramped little place, with stuffy rooms and rotted oak walls and lone windows caked in grimy frost. The man opens the door to a tiny corner room, and has to ram the wood with his shoulder to get it closed again. The room itself is bare, blank—a tiny table in the center, two rickety beds. On the threadbare bed shoved against the farthest corner, the boy lies still, his skin flushed, his breaths wheezing. A blanket is pulled up to his chin, and his long ratty hair is damp with sweat.

The man goes to his side at once, his steps long, almost hurried. There is a twist to his heart at the sight of the boy so still and sullen. He sits on the foot of the bed, careful so the springs won’t creak, and reaches over to place a hand on the boy’s head. As the man had feared: the boy feels feverishly hot, burning from the inside out.

“Oh, dear,” says the man. “You aren’t looking better at all.”

The boy’s eyes open at that, a sliver of liquid silver. “Shut up,” he says, but in his sickness he slurs the words, stumbles, and it comes out sounding more like “Shhhhhhut up” rather than the bite he probably means it to be. “S-stupid clown. I told you, I’m fine, I’m just…”

“Completing your transformation into the world’s smallest, most temperamental oven?” the man says gravely, with terrible certainty, and laughs aloud when the boy kicks him. “Sorry, sorry! I know. You’re fine. But, ah… I’m feeling a bit tired myself, y’see, so I’m afraid we’ll be spending the night here rather than traveling like I promised.”

“Liar,” the boy mumbles. He sinks into the sheets, his eyelashes fluttering. His mouth twists like he’s tasted something sour. “‘M sorry.”

The words are so quiet he barely catches them. The man leans in. “Hm?”

“Sorry. I—I shoulda listened, when you said—when you said to get out of the rain. And to put on my coat. And dry off. I didn’t do any of that, and now—so, um. Yeah.”

The man does not remember saying that. He does not remember a day in the rain, the boy snubbing his instruction. He does not know what the boy is talking about. And yet, inexplicably, he smiles soft and fond, aching gentle, and says: “I know. It’s all right, my boy.”

“I’ll listen, next time.”

His smile grows wide, almost mischievous. “Oh?”

The boy immediately scowls. His tiny foot kicks the man from under the covers. “I _will_! Stupid clown. Just you watch. I can listen, sometimes.”

“Okay,” the man says, humoring him. He cannot stop smiling. He pats the boy’s knee and then pushes up from the bed, cracking his shoulders. “Are you hungry? I think we’ve got just enough coin for a big dinner, if you’d like. Get some rest, I’ll—”

“Wait!” the boy cries, and the man freezes, stone still, when a small hand snatches at his coat sleeve. “Wait, wait, I—I, I’m not hungry. Not yet. Um.”

The man looks down at the boy. His little face red with fever, those London-gray eyes wide and afraid. That careful grip on the man’s sleeve, loose enough to shake.

He sits down on the bed and watches as the boy slowly relaxes, settling back under the covers. He takes the boy’s hand from his sleeve and holds it, careful, in his own. Watches hope and understanding bloom on this wary boy’s strangely familiar face.

“Then,” says the man. He squeezes the boy’s hand and feels a similar grip wrap tight around his heart. “I suppose I’ll stay here with you.”

The boy smiles. Small and quick and shuttered. Bright.

It’s only a dream, the Earl thinks. And yet. He feels so warm.

 

.

 

—must be from meeting the Fourteenth. Tyki, did you hear what they were talking about? It’s never been this bad. Road is still too weak to help… and Tyki, I can’t see his dreams _at all._ They aren’t there. They shouldn’t be there. I don’t understand. I don’t—

O-oh, Earl! You woke up again. That’s good. That’s wonderful! Stay like that, okay?

Hm? Oh, Earl, everything’s okay. It’s fine. Just. Try to stay awake? I’ll make it better. I’ll make you better. I promise.

Just stay awake.

 

.

 

He blinks his eyes open into midday sun, bright and blinding in his face, past even the shade of his favorite top-hat. He is sitting on the steps of an old stone building, scissors in his hand. The boy is sitting in front of him, kicking bare feet over the worn stone steps, both hands tucked into his middle and hidden from view.

“ _Don’t_ make it uneven, stupid clown,” the boy is saying. “And—and not too short! I don’t wanna look like you. And—”

The man clears his throat and pats the boy’s shoulder with his free hand. The boy is wearing new clothes, a pastel purple and pink plaid clown costume. It’s adorable. The look on the boy’s face when he twists around to glare at the man is less so. His expression is sullen and his eyes are afraid. “I promise,” the man says, and his heart aches. “You will have the cutest hair in all of England.” 

The boy’s face screws up in a pout. The fear fades from his eyes in favor of offense. “No!”

“You will be adorable,” the man vows. Thinks it over. “Even more adorable!”

The boy turns away, unimpressed. “I’m leaving.”

The man smiles. He takes a breath and says—

 

“A̶̛̝̭̞̽́͋l̸͍̘̀ļ̶̜͂̅͝ē̶̢̠̰̓̈́͐n̷̟͔̾̒̋”

 

—and the boy looks up, reluctant.

“I’ll be careful,” the man says, gentle again. His teasing tone fading into that softer warmth that comes so easily when speaking to this boy. “I won’t ruin your hair. Trust me?”

The boy stares at him. His eyes are very wide. “You said my name,” he says.

The man blinks. He brings a hand up to his head. Had he? He can’t—he can't quite remember. What had he said, exactly?

And yet, all he says is: “Yes, of course.” He is confused, despite himself. What else would he call the boy, if not his name? Not that the man knows his name, of course.

(But then, what had he…?)

The boy is still staring. Slowly, he sits back down on the steps, turns to his back to the man. His voice is quiet. “Okay,” says the boy. “Okay. Cut my hair. I—I trust you.”

“ _Please_ cut my hair,” the man corrects, because manners are important, and the boy heaves a loud sigh and suddenly the air is clear again, bright and warm as the midday sun, as if that terrible vulnerability had never been.

“ _Please_ cut my hair, stupid clown,” says the boy, with all the unimpressed scorn his small frame can muster, and the Earl grins ear to ear as he gently picks up one of the boy’s trailing locks and snips it short.

He is so warm, so content, so quietly touched by the trust this boy has in him. He is so happy to have this moment.

(And yet—in the back of his mind—he thinks— 

What was it that he said, before? That name he cannot remember. He cannot recall. And yet—

It feels important. It feels as if he should know.)

 

.

 

Tyki, what do you mean, the Fourteenth called him—?

—Earl! You woke up!

Wait, wait! Don’t go to sleep. Earl, don’t go to sleep! Stay with me. Stay with us. Earl. _Earl—_

 

.

 

He is kneeling in a dark alley, his back to the busy streets, his footsteps sunk deep in winter snow. He is carving symbols into the earth. His symbols. The Fourteenth’s melody. The Ark song. His special symbol. He says, “Remember this, “A̶̛̝̭̞̽́͋l̸͍̘̀ļ̶̜͂̅͝ē̶̢̠̰̓̈́͐n̷̟͔̾̒̋."

“Okay,” says the boy. He is crouching too, watching the man draw with sharp eyes. His hair is short, now. Short and flat and fine. The cut of it makes something deep within the Earl quail in memory, strikes him with a flash of recognition. The snow that dusts the boy’s head like fine feathers, white and soft, blending with his eyes—it makes his heart go cold.

The Ark is special. The Ark is the Fourteenth’s, it is the Earl’s, it is _theirs—_ it is not for anyone else, let alone this foul-mouthed human child. But he carves those symbols in the snow regardless, says, “Promise me you will remember this, promise me you won’t forget,” and marvels at the love he must feel for this strange little boy, to give him something so infinitely precious.

The boy looks up and smiles at him. It is a strangely sweet smile. Strangely mysterious. With the snow in his hair and his cheeks red from cold, the boy almost looks like someone else.

“I promise,” says the boy, and for a moment the Earl forgets this is a dream—forgets the boy is not real, that the boy reminds him of something else, forgets the name he cannot hear and forgets the Ark song should not be shared.

He forgets. He feels, for a moment, like someone else. And he says: “I know you will.”

Around them, the snow falls.

 

.

 

Don’t worry, Earl.

I’m going to fix this.

 

.

 

“Is your dog… dead?”

He is standing on ground gone cold with the first snows of winter, digging deep into the frozen dirt. The wind bites at his limbs and the shovel handle rubs raw at his skin with every strike. There is the weight of a wig on his head and make-up caked on his face; it feels as natural as if he’d been born in it.

The boy stands beside him, hands in his pockets, his eyes flat and dead. His hair is long again, pulled back into a loose tail; his clothes are threadbare and smudged with dirt.

Before them, beside the grave, a small dog lies in the snow. Eyes closed, chest still, as peaceful as a dream.

The man looks back at the boy, calm despite it all. “Well,” he says. “He was quite old, so…”

“Oh,” says the boy. He is staring at the grave, gray eyes shadowed and shoulders stiff. He doesn’t say anything else.

The man jabs his shovel into the snow. “By the way,” he says, light as the sun above them, “who are you, again?”

 

**_—rl._ **

 

The boy glances at him, a pale cut of his eyes. “I work as a chore boy here.”

The man smiles. “I see,” he murmurs. He looks the boy up and down, trying to place him— _Who are you?_ —and his eyes go wide with sudden realization. “Oh! You’re covered in bruises!” He licks at his thumb and goes to smudge the stain away, a gesture borne of instinct and memory, but the boy hisses and jolts back—

 

**_—arl!_ **

 

“Ugh! That’s gross—!”

 

**_Earl! Wake up!_ **

 

The world wavers, rippling, fragile as a reflection in water. The whisper of snow, a small hand in his, a quiet voice, saying—

He blinks and the boy is sitting down, now, they are sitting side by side and the man says, “Do you have friends?”

The boy’s little face curls into a sneer, and he says—

 

**_Earl, it’s not real._ **

 

The grave is complete, dug and filled, the dog buried. He places a small ball on the top to mark the resting ground of his beloved friend. Beside him, the boy asks, “Why aren’t you crying?”

“Well,” the man starts—

 

**_Come back to us, Earl! Wake up!_ **

 

“—his name?” the boy asks. His voice is so quiet, soft and unsure. “When I pet him yesterday, he—he licked my hand.” The man looks at the boy. At the edge of his vision, the boy’s hand rests in the snow, paralyzed and unmoving. His hand is—his hand is—

“So,” says the boy, and his voice is starting to hitch, starting to catch, breaking on the words, and the man watches him fight with understanding eyes, “I—I thought I’d—”

The world is shaking, curling in at the edges. Breaking like glass, cracking into tiny pieces. Blurry and light like the dream it’s supposed to be—

 

 **_Earl. Earl! Millennium Earl, you are the_ ** **Millennium Earl _, wake up, come back, come back—!_**

 

—the boy is crying, deep sobs like he’s forgotten how to do it properly. Curled into and curled over himself, one hand twisted in the fabric of his shirt, right over his heart. He is shaking, shivering, his small face warped from the effort of his tears. The man looks at him then, understanding, feeling a strange and overwhelming fondness for this is boy that is crying when the man cannot, and he thinks:

_Ah, I see._

 

**_EARL!_ **

 

_So you were Allen’s friend too._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The dream shatters.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The boy is crying. The boy is crying like his heart is breaking, his hands shaking at the man’s shoulders. Everything hurts, but most painful of all: the boy, his boy, is crying._

_“Please,” the boy says. London-sky gray turned to liquid, streaming down his cheeks. His little face is red and ruddy. His hair, shorter now, combed neat and flat, is sticky and dark with blood._

_“Please,” the boy sobs. “Please, please don’t go. I love you. I love you. I’ll be good, I’ll behave, I’ll be the best and you’ll never have to get mad at me ever again please, please—”_

_He reaches up to touch the boy’s hair. He says the name he cannot remember._

_“Please—”_

_“I love you,” he tells his boy. “Don’t stop. Keep walking. No matter—no matter what. Keep walking.”_

_“Don’t go,” says the boy. “Please, don’t leave me alone.”_

_He tries to answer. Tries to speak, tries to assure him. But the world is growing darker, his hand heavier, and his words are running out. “I love you,” Mana says. His boy’s heart is breaking and he is breaking with it. “I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.”_

.

 

 

 

 

 

“Allen, I love you.”

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Earl wakes up, and it feels like clawing his way out of a deep, dark pit. His head throbs, pounding like a drum behind his eyes. His mouth is dry, his throat sore. He gasps for air as if he has forgotten how to breathe.

“Earl!” Wisely cries, and he leans in close to the Earl’s face, his voice fearful. The three-fold eye on his head is stark against his gray skin and cracked right down in the middle. There are still tears tracking down the corners of his eyes. “Are you all right?”

Behind him, pacing by the Earl’s bedside, Tyki stops mid-step, whirling around with wide eyes. “Earl,” he says. “Earl, are you back?”

The Earl blinks, rubbing hard at his head. He feels oddly breathless, strangely gutted; his heart aches like an old bruise. “Y-yes,” he says, uncertain, but even as he says it, the pain eases, fading with every breath. Whatever fog clouded his mind has lifted, his thoughts clear once more. “Yes, I don’t feel tired anymore.” He brightens, eager to put their minds at ease. “Actually, I feel wonderfully well-rested! I can’t remember why I felt so strange—”

“The Fourteenth—” Tyki starts, and then Wisely says, “Ah!” very loudly, cutting him off.

It’s too late, though; the Earl’s smile has died. “…Oh,” he says. “That’s right. In that town, I—I saw Neah… and he said—”

He frowns at the memory of it, distraught despite himself. Something has gone wrong with the Fourteenth’s return… perhaps it is that blasted Walker’s fault. Why else would Neah say all those inane things? Nothing he said back then made any sense. It _still_ doesn’t make sense. Perhaps the Walker boy did something to stall Neah’s return, something to hurt Neah, and that’s why…

And yet. Even this explanation doesn’t sit well with him. The things Neah had been saying—

His dear family is watching him now, dark behind the eyes, afraid. The Earl blinks blankly back and finally remembers to smile. “It’s all right!” he assures them. “I really do feel much better.”

Glances are exchanged, and then Wisely steps closer, strangely uncertain. “Earl, if I can ask…”

“Hm?”

“What—what did you see? Those dreams, I couldn’t peer into them at all, and even Road… I had to—to _fight_ to even attempt to break it.”

The Earl stares at him, aghast. “Truly?” he asks. Wisely and Tyki both nod, their faces solemn. As they should be—something so invisible and resilient to Wisely’s Demon Eye should be impossible. “Well, that’s strange. It wasn’t really anything all that serious, I—I just dreamed of a boy, really.”

“Another Noah?” Tyki asks immediately, and the Earl—frowns.

“No,” he says slowly. The dream is… harder, now, to recall. Faint and distant like a memory. “No, I… I don’t think so. Human. Just human. He was—little and angry, and he swore a lot, and—”

The Earl stops mid-word, blinking fast, staring at the corner. “Oh!” he says. “Oh, there he is.”

His family goes cold and still. They whip around. The boy, long-haired and bruised and dressed in his tattered clothes, smiles sharply back. _What,_ he says, and oh, he is just as the Earl remembers him. _Are you telling lies about me, stupid clown?_

“Of course not,” the Earl starts—and stops again, when his family turns around to stare. “Ah, what is it? Why do you all look like that?”

The boy, in the corner, is smiling. His hands in his pockets. His gray eyes quiet as the snow. _Oh, Mana,_ he says, with terrible fondness, and the Earl goes still as the stone.

“Earl,” Tyki says. “Earl—”

_Don’t you remember me?_

“Earl,” Tyki says, and he sounds afraid, now, quiet and horrified and little uncertain: “Earl, there’s nobody there.”

 _I meant something, once,_ the boy says. He’s in front of him now. The Earl hadn’t even seen him move. No one else reacts. _Didn’t I?_ _You found me in the snow, you took care of me. You loved me. You named me, Mana. Do you remember yet?_ His smile is so sad. His red hair is cut short and fine, and snow dusts his small shoulders. _Mana, Mana, you named me—_

 _“Allen,”_ the Earl breathes, and the boy smiles, he smiles so wide, so bright, and around them the world breaks, shatters like glass and scatters into pieces, falls soft like snow, because—because—

Because the Earl has seen that smile before.

“Allen,” he says, “Allen—Allen Walker—my Allen, my Allen, no, no, you can’t—you can’t be—”

 _Hello, Mana,_ Allen says. His voice is so clear. His eyes are as bright as the sky. His smile is breathless and even now, even here, the Earl cannot help but love his smile. _I came back, silly clown. I never forgot. Never ever._

“No—”

His family is speaking. Yelling, arguing, trying to call him back. But Allen is all the Earl can see. Little Allen, red-haired and sharp-tongued, who smiles wide with tears in his eyes.

 _Don’t cry, Mana,_ he says. _It’s okay._ _I’m here. I’m right here._

Around them the snow falls, as quiet as a dream. Is he dreaming, still? But perhaps the Earl was never dreaming at all. Perhaps those misty visions have always been something else, something so much worse. The echoes of a memory, of a life erased, called back with a vengeance. Awakened at last by the whisper of knowing in the Fourteenth’s words, when he opened his arms and said, in Allen Walker’s voice: _Mana._

 _Mana,_ Allen says. _Mana, I’m right here. I’m still here. I kept my promise. I kept walking._

The Earl falls. But no matter how hard he tries, no matter how he fights—

_Mana, I love you._

—this time, he cannot wake up.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sucks to be the Earl. Now he gets a little memory-Allen to follow him around and blatantly remind him that killing people is bad and oh, yeah, you made your son cry so many times. Also you plotted to get him stabbed. 
> 
> Yeah. Yikes.
> 
> Allen’s past is really hard to piece together, especially since there’s apparently a lot of stuff in a novel or something? Which i skimmed, but yeah. Difficult to understand. Anyway, my take is that, while there were times when Mana called Allen the wrong name or mistook him for Allen-the-dog/Neah/maybe even Neah’s-friend-Allen, there were also just as many times when Allen was just _Allen._ His kid. I know there’s this whole big question on if Mana actually loved Allen but you know what? Yes he did. He better have. Dear god, let the boy have _something._
> 
> That’s my thoughts on the whole situation, anyway. I hope you all enjoyed! (And also, if any of you are readers of my other dgm fic, Dreaming of Flowers, I'm happy to say there'll be an update for that fic soon!!)
> 
> [If you want to rec this fic, you can reblog it here,](https://izaswritings.tumblr.com/post/185116489652/title-you-are-a-memory-synopsis-lets-go-home) and if you have any questions or just want to talk, [my tumblr](http://izaswritings.tumblr.com) is always open.
> 
> Any thoughts?


End file.
